Nor A Lender Be
by Jeanne Marie
Summary: The fourth story in the Shakespeare series, preceded by I Talk Of Dreams, When The Hurlyburly's Done and Small Cheer And Great Welcome. The Mexico City job ushers in its own problems.


"Well, there are definite advantages to having multiple levels to the dream," Arthur says, adjusting his shirt cuffs. "But along with that are also numerous risks."

"And that's why your fee is so much higher," concludes Sanz.

"Exactly. If you'll just excuse me for a moment..."

Eames takes over the negotiations for a minute or two before gracefully shooing them all outside for a smoke. As soon as he's alone, he sighs quietly and lays a gentle hand on his ribs.

It's back hanging loose at his side when he grabs a chair and carries it into the washroom.

Before him Arthur is hunched into a question mark, leaning heavily on the dirty porcelain of the sink. "Do you think they noticed anything?" he asks.

"No, they remain oblivious to your disgusting human frailty."

When he takes Arthur by the shoulder, it isn't the heat of the skin under his fingers that ultimately tells Eames this isn't normal, it's the way Arthur closes his eyes and accepts the touch. "I could have sworn I saw you take something," he says mildly, guiding Arthur into the chair.

"I did."

"Well, it's not-" Eames coughs several times in rapid succession and Arthur turns toward him, his already hooded eyes somehow narrowing. "Oh, do fuck off." The ache is still there every time he breathes, but it's manageable. He's able to forget about it the majority of the time. "When are you going home?"

"I don't-"

"Now is a wonderful option, I think."

"I can do this."

"...After the weekend, you were going to say?" He smiles. "I agree completely."

"Eames."

"Tell them we need time to put together a team. It's even true. This is a large undertaking. We just won't need quite as much time as we tell them. Architects aren't _that_ thin on the ground. Who are we getting, by the way? ...School's out of session, yeah? And I think we are on Ariadne's home continent..."

"Absolutely not." His tone is oddly sharp, vehement.

"All right." Eames raises his hands, placating. "So who did you have in mind? Krongell refuses to work in third world countries, Nash, I am told, is dead, and kind of crap besides. Maybe Jefferson LeMartin?"

"I was thinking _I_ would-"

"For God's sake. They want us to extract two subjects at once and on multiple levels. Right now you are quite possibly dying of H1N1. This is not the time to wear eleventy-six hats. No, we're getting someone."

"Sold," Arthur says, smirking faintly. "You are so melodramatic." The surprising moment of good humor is unsurprisingly short-lived. Arthur scrubs a tired hand across his face. "Please stop saying 'we'. This is not your..."

Crossing his arms, Eames allows silence and a mutinous expression to speak for him.

"I didn't bring you here to..." Arthur shakes his head. "Just stop. You're not-"

"What I am not, Arthur, is an _invalid_." He was rarely seen out of his dressing gown as recently as one week ago, but what's past is past. "Now, up you get. Stay quiet and I will get 'us' through the rest of this meeting."

With a loud exhalation, Arthur rises. He straightens his spine, opens his eyes fully, looking for all the world like there's not a thing wrong with him. Eames isn't shocked. That's Arthur. Rather he's pondering the fact that this didn't happen back when Eames first entered the washroom.

o o o

The pillow is coarse. But yielding. It keeps his head in place, helping to prevent him from rolling off the bed as he's tossing and turning, and for that he is grateful.

As he shivers under a cocoon of three blankets, Arthur watches Eames's fuzzy outline and listens to half of a phone conversation.

He isn't certain from just the silhouette, but Eames sounds bewildered. "No, I'm well. Really, it wasn't- Um. ...Well, thank you. Now onto my actual reason for violating your..."

The mattress dips. Eames is sitting next to Arthur and a thumb is lightly rubbing away the fire underneath Arthur's temple. Arthur is suddenly acutely aware that he can't remember how they left things with Sanz. "When are we-"

Eames only clicks his tongue. "Go to sleep," he says quietly. "Things should look better in the morning."

Arthur closes his eyes. Eames is good at this, much better than Arthur was.

o o o

A voice from beyond promises toast if he can drag his arse out of bed. While toast doesn't sound all that appetizing, he's fairly sure he hasn't eaten since last December. Out he lurches, like a mute, stupid, uncoordinated shade of himself.

He reaches the kitchen, hating the sedimentary layers of sweat on his skin so much he would possibly kill someone for a shower. "What day is..." Arthur freezes. A few words feebly gather together and lobby to be what Arthur says next, but he ignores them in favor of staring.

"Nice to see you, too," Cobb says dryly. There's a cup of coffee at his elbow and a jacket hanging on the back of his chair. He looks like he lives here. "And it's Thursday."

"You're the architect." It isn't a question. Arthur's wits haven't dulled completely.

"I used to be pretty good at it. You remember."

"He does," Eames insists, cheerful. "Or he will. In, uh. In time. A few minutes on the outside. Sit down before you fall down, Arthur."

Arthur sits. Cobb folds the newspaper he was reading to make room on the table. "You shouldn't be here," Arthur says. "Your kids." He's thankful he has the presence of mind not to say _her_ kids.

"It's just one job."

"And next time?"

Cobb shrugs lightly before he sips from his mug. "Next time I probably won't be in the neighborhood."

As Eames comes over with the promised toast, Arthur watches him pretend he doesn't feel Cobb noticing the weight he's dropped (Because, God, he has. At this point, he doesn't look unhealthy, though he doesn't look _Eames_, either.). Casually, not looking at anyone, he grabs one slice to stick in his mouth before leaving the plate on the table. While he could have intended to do that all along, still Arthur fights off a smirk.

A few minutes later, a slice and a half of dry toast and a few bites of egg have convinced him that he's still human. "Dom, I know you made sketches on the plane. Let's see what you have."

"Right," Cobb says. And they're off.


End file.
